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I can’t sleep.

I can’t eat.

I can’t breathe.

I saved my cries for the shower, thinking the watery blend would camouflage the pain from even myself because a woman of strength must remain steadfast and unshakable. But my strong mind was no match for my weak body as it soon hugged the tile floor — tears slapping my cheeks and pooling in my wrinkled hands.

Even at rest, the room spins hastily and leaves my intestines cringing for relaxation. The portion of my lip that remained numb from the extractions is returning to normal only to be replaced by the numbness in my soul.

I need a brown bag. Do I breathe or do I puke?

It’s 3 AM and she’s unable to take my usual call to have our routine discussion of daily news, funny things that Genny did or said, a recollection of something at HU, and rants that we only share with each other before putting the Superwoman cape back on. Can’t I override the hospital’s phone restrictions?

I know.

I hear you.

Don’t try to talk.

“Stay strong for Genny, Jaye. I’m good.”

Well, I’m not, but I will be. And so will you.

Rest up, my dear friend. Copy?